Mike Ravdonikas: Poems
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| التاريخ | نمو المشتركين | الإشارات | القنوات | |
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منشورات القناة
| 2 | Post /
An unfinished letter to my Grandma—
she would never listen to my stories,
feeding me her trademark barley porridge
with meat, picking bone after bone
with Grandad, or recalling basketball
days in post-war Leningrad, her
handsome coach who died, that captain,
fleet or army, who dared resist
the charms of her blonde braids and how
she married “just to spite him,” or that day
in Yalta when she had a chance to be
unfaithful and should have taken it, and
so I took to writing for a hope to get a word in—
sat on my desk too long, too long,
before it joined her bundle labeled
‘dear Misha’s letters and cards with
foreign city views’ (my uncle sent them back). | 8 949 |
| 3 |  Have you tried sitting on it?
Live at Bocasu | 11 675 |
| 4 | +6 1 - Kattikko's Dream (Triphop).mp3 | 12 229 |
| 5 |  Single Issues \
When AI takes away all words,
at least we'll always have our pictures.
When AI takes away all pics,
at least we'll always have the music.
When —
time to learn to keep our secrets.
@verse by MR | 10 640 |
| 6 | Have you tried sitting on it? /
I was trying to finish a poem.
The poem was trying to finish me.
We both reached the end of language –
where he begins and I stop –
and stood breathing,
eyeing one another with contempt.
Him refusing to become whole,
me refusing to pull any further
by his lank hair. "I will disauthor you!"
The smug toad belches, not blinking.
You try dragging that stupid head,
tongue stuck in concrete. | 14 199 |
| 7 | Night Closing In /
Now, as the sky turns pink, chase
everyone else out of your skin
to see how violet it can get all by yourself
before the pre-OLED screen blackness
puts a lid on us, before
the green spaces release the sulphur
from this day’s recycled waters,
before white glare infests construction sites,
before the Gulf retreats from sight
and leaves the sound to the hotels
and villas squeezing empty beaches.
@verse by MR | 15 644 |
| 8 |  @verse by MR | 17 288 |
| 9 | Pine Scented Night /
An empty pool of frog,
behind a brick wall in Antibes.
A window with a slice of ceiling,
ceiling fan, its groping shadow.
An accelerating van
to rip in two the croaking,
dwindling taillights as it
sneaks together at the break.
@verse by MR | 21 622 |
| 10 | Homage /
I didn’t buy Bukoswki’s book
for fifteen hundred bucks,
signed, first edition.
He would have laughed his ass off:
tiny earthquake in Green Hills, LA.
@verse by MR | 5 023 |
| 11 | Out of the corner of my eye:
an open fan. Who brought
the cake? Who took the slices? | 10 296 |
| 12 | My granddad’s birthday,
but he won’t get older.
Starting last year,
every summer,
it’s just me. | 27 283 |
| 13 | Cycling alone
Past Andrew Wyeth fields –
No lid on the world!
#haiku by MR | 27 459 |
| 14 | If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable. (Seneca)
I’d fill my sail at once
with prayers and
sweet winds, were I
to know which way
my prow should face,
to hasten me
toward the shores
on which it grew
and first extended
gentle branches to
the moon – before
the shipwright’s hand
had hewn it into this,
the homeless figurehead;
the shores I do so miss.
@verse by MR | 30 786 |
| 15 | MBA
Any poet in
Business class
Dreams of First.
@verse
(Disclosure: I don’t; first is lonely AF, at least on Emirates.) | 25 971 |
| 16 | Misfiring platitudes /
How many people
reading “you’re the
product if it’s free”
went “O-M-G! Why,
I’m a product from a
major corporation!
Move aside!”
@verse by MR | 25 227 |
| 17 | Woe, awesomeness /
A ballerina trains
for decades to keep
her head up and
her straight defiant
back and — smile! —
when burning at the
stake for the affront
her mastery inflicts
on wretched hearts
like mine.
@verse by MR | 22 822 |
| 18 | Now post this /
Try to remember for a day:
a war is on. Try to remember
every day it's there: it's there.
Try to hold on to that while
war thrives anywhere.
You will have lived a life
of wars: untouched, un-
spared. You will have sac-
rificed so much, they —
left unscared?
@verse by MR | 20 144 |
| 19 | Catjutants /
For my mother
Remember this:
Wherever you might be,
No matter what your task,
No matter what your deadline –
At least one cat
Has been assigned to you and me
To dream on our behalf
Upon a blanket, like it’s bedtime.
@verse by MR | 20 525 |
| 20 |  Holy cooked /
contemplating a too modern crucifix
The charred remains of Jesus,
blending with his cross,
fit for a world past nuclear
demise: I search his face for
seared-shut eyes to drive
back the imagined smell of
kofta (or kebab, depending
on the customs of your land) –
and pray his gaze be softer
than this stab, the hide of this
cocoon – when He arises
from the blaze to leave
the tomb.
@verse by MR | 19 866 |
